SPITBULL

BLAND AND PADDED WITH CLICHÉS

Monday, January 12, 2004

NYAH NYAH NYAH

I acknowledge unreservedly that Brett Favre is a great quarterback--fierce competitor, Super Bowl winner, certain first-ballot Hall-of-Famer. Yadda, yadda, yadda. As a long-suffering Vikings fan, I gladly ignored all that to wallow in a delicious moment of schadenfreude during sudden-death overtime in yesterday's Eagles-Packers NFL playoff tilt when Favre threw a bone-headed interception that led, six inexorable plays later, to David Akers' game-winning field goal for the Eagles. I couldn't quite hear the moans of agony from across the eastern border, but I could imagine them, and they made sweet, sweet music.

What was Favre thinking? Either the receiver ran the wrong route, in which case Favre threw ill-advisedly into double coverage, or the receiver ran the correct route, in which case Favre missed him by at least ten yards. (It looks like Favre won't be saying, as he declined to talk to reporters after the game. Classy--in a Denny Green sort of way.) Favre's early years were plagued by this sort of reckless awfulness, but in his maturity he had eradicated such gaffes almost entirely from his game.

Almost. Heh heh heh.

So much for the "team of destiny" hoopla that has surrounded the Packers in general since their midseason turnaround (which would have been for naught absent the Vikings' midseason turnaround in the other direction, mind you) and Favre in particular given his stellar (until now) play following the untimely death of his father. Destiny has its own inscrutable ways; just ask Gary Anderson.